


Kintsugi

by madame-ouida (hestia_lacey)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Episode: s10e22 The Prisoner, Gen, Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 13:06:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3979153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hestia_lacey/pseuds/madame-ouida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time they met - or at least, the first time they both remember - Dean put a knife through his vessel's heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kintsugi

**Author's Note:**

> Coda to 10x22 'The Prisoner', written before the series finale. A tentative foray back into fanfic after an overlong absence. Cross-posted to Tumblr, where I'm also madame-ouida.

The first time they met - or at least, the first time they both remember - Dean put a knife through his vessel's heart.

At the time it barely registered. Castiel, Angel of the Lord, couldn't really conceptualise the implications of flesh and nerves and veins back then beyond their fundamental biology, but hindsight sometimes makes him think that when he healed Jimmy Novak of the wound he missed something, some microcosmic tear in something deeper and more essential than muscle and tissue that opened up fissures in his very being, sent fault lines cracking through his basic substance.

It could perhaps explain how Dean could make him feel so much when emotion wasn't supposed to be something he could even comprehend, and it might account for the ache that centres deep in his chest when he looks at Dean, or is near Dean, or thinks about Dean at all.

It's an absurd line of reasoning of course, but with his own blade still trembling with the force Dean used to drive it through the book by Castiel's head he can't help but recall that night years ago when he was still so holy and certain, and Dean's knife in his chest meant nothing at all, not really.

It's stunning, he thinks, feeling blood trickle down by his ear, it's absolutely stunning, how much has changed since then. Castiel is Cas now, and even if he doesn't know what that means, what he really is anymore, he knows that it's likely not enough to save Dean Winchester this time. Castiel stood against the legions of Hell to bring the Righteous Man back to life - Cas can't even keep him in the same room anymore. He isn't supposed to have the capacity for tears but his vision blurs over with them all the same and when he blinks he feels them spill over, track back into his hair.

Dean walked away from him, left him bloodied with his heart cracking apart, the promise of 'next time' shivering through him. It should be enough to keep him down for a long while.

Except.

Except there's a photograph lying face up on the floor, edges curling. There's blood - he doesn't know whose - spattered across one corner, overly bright against the fading shine of Mary Winchester's hair and the sight of it makes his breath hitch.

Cas rolls awkwardly onto his side and drags the photo closer with his fingertips. Moving is painful, but it doesn't hurt nearly as much as it does when he looks at the Dean in the picture, who was safe and happy and loved and knew that. There's that feeling again, that ever-deepening ache in his chest that's been devastating him for years and all of this should cripple him, it really should. It should shatter him to pieces.

Only somehow, it's the thing that eventually drags him back to his feet. It's the thing that makes him wipe off the photograph and tuck it carefully into the inside pocket of his coat with steady hands. It's the thing that has him rescue Dean's records and his favourite shirts from a spreading pool of gasoline and pile them neatly on the table because he'll want them later, when he's better. He watches the skin on the back of his hands smooth over, raw knuckles knitting together, and comes to a realisation.

Without noticing, whatever cracks were in his chassis have filled with something golden and vital from which he can draw more strength than he thought he had any more. This might still all end as it began for them: Dean's knife in Cas' chest and the black impression of Cas' wings, but right now, Cas feels holy and certain and absolute again with Dean's photograph tucked safely against his heart, and he can't help the mad hope that maybe this time.

This time.


End file.
